


drip down the side of me(swallow me)

by twiddlesprocket



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Rough Sex, Strip Tease, Tobias Beecher Is Tired - Freeform, all i do is write confusing sentences ask my audience "isnt love just this fucked up shit?" and lie, author gets themselves out of writing a whole sex scene part 2.doc, like every other fic ive written so far: partially, toby's pov this time! how spicy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 12:09:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25969447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twiddlesprocket/pseuds/twiddlesprocket
Summary: They've been backstage before.
Relationships: Tobias Beecher/Chris Keller
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	drip down the side of me(swallow me)

**Author's Note:**

> i listened to WAP thru like almost all of this sry :/

* * *

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see. Don't open your eyes--I can feel you trying to."

Toby stumbles a bit, hits something nearby, and jolts like he's being attacked, making angry noises the whole time. Chris fights to keep him blinded while he rights himself. "God damn it. Chris, where the hell are we going? "

"I got you, trust me. What, you don't trust me?"

Toby doesn’t answer.

Chris sounds a little disappointed when he fills the silence. "Almost there." He guides him the last few yards to the heavy curtains, making sure Toby stops completely before saying, "Alright. No peeking."

When he takes his hands away, Toby remains honest by keeping his eyes closed, because...well, fuck why. He and Chris don’t do shit for the same reasons. He just makes sure to have his body poised for whatever Chris might pull while he’s leaving himself wide open like a fucking idiot.

He listens to the scuffling of Chris’s shoes. Then there’s a gentle breeze on his face and the sound of some big, heavy fabric sweeping across the floor. "What's that?" he asks.

Chris gently takes Toby's hand and says, "Don't worry about it. Come on."

Toby sighs, frustrated, but carefully begins walking forward.

"God, Tobe, were you always this square out in the real world, too?" Chris jibes. He must step in closer, because now he’s breathing into Toby’s face.

"Can I help you?"

"Sit down."

A snort comes out of Toby. "What?"

"You heard me. Sit down."

Warily, Toby puts his hand out behind himself and starts to squat. His fingers hit something hard. Upon further feeling, he makes out...a chair. He plops himself down gracelessly, completely unamused by this whole arrangement. "Uh. Sitting."

"Good. Open your eyes."

Toby does. It's...dark. His hackles go up instantly, until his eyes adjust and he can start to see shapes and figures. Chris is standing directly in front of him, and around them are…boxes? They're filled with things like feather boas and clothes and weird, proplike objects. There's a metal rack with wheels to the left, and a whole wall of curtains to the right. The light from where he supposes the hallway is, behind him, lets him see all of it. "...The theater?" 

"Backstage," Chris clarifies with a tiny tilt of his head. He's staring down at Toby like he's hungry. It puts a heavy, arousing feeling in the pit of Toby's gut, despite how fucking suspicious this is.

"Okay. What are we doing backstage?" 

"You give the hacks enough of whatever it is they want," Chris says, taking deliberate, predatory steps around Toby in his chair, "and they let you do whatever _you_ want. Within reason, of course."

"Yeah, because that answers my question," Toby quips lamely. 

"Aren't you bored of just fucking around in the common area, Toby? Don't you want some...what’s it called...enrichment?"

"That what this is about?" Toby laments, eyeing Chris as he pads quietly behind the chair. "Enrichment? We a couple of fucking tigers at the zoo or something?" 

Suddenly, Chris swoops in, and the clack of his teeth chomping together makes Toby jump. The low, rumbling chuckle that comes from deep in Chris's chest afterwards is unfairly sexy. 

"Why'd you bring me here, Chris?"

"I told you, I had a surprise."

"And the surprise was that you could get us backstage? To what, Broadway?"

Chris loops back around until he's standing back in front of Toby's chair, trailing his sparkling eyes down Toby's body. He toes at one of the chair legs. "Well," he grins, eyes batting as he regards his feet almost demurely, "I'm hoping the show is just as good."

"Quit being vague," Toby dismisses, shaking his head. "Just tell me what the hell you're up to. I don’t like playing these stupid little games."

Chris just silently turns and takes one, two, three, four, five big steps out in front of Toby. He whirls around on his heel. When Toby can see his face again, he snakes his hand down his stomach, slowly, slowly, until it slides down into his pants. 

Toby shifts in his seat. Okay, this wasn’t what he was expecting.

Chris's hand shoots back out, holding--

"What the hell is that?”

Chris's smile is charming. "Like I said, they let you do whatever."

"Is _this_ the surprise? You...got me a phone?"

Chris laughs a bit at that. "Not even I have the kinda resources that can get a fucking phone for keeps, Beecher."

"Well, forgive me for trying to deduce all the very helpful hints I've been given."

Chris fiddles with the phone a bit, pressing buttons here and there, when suddenly, a song begins to play. As he places it on a nearby crate, Toby tunes his ears to listen and feels a genuine laugh bubbling in his chest.

"Are you serious?" he blurts out.

Chris looks at him. "What?"

"Ginuwine?"

"Well, _excuse me_ for trying to inspire a certain mood."

At this, Toby reigns himself back in and stares at Chris dead-on as the beginnings of the song Pony jingles from the little phone. He doesn't know if he wants to ask Chris what he means.

Chris doesn't give him an answer. Not verbally, at least. Pony keeps on playing, thin and crisp in the silence of their little alcove, and Toby is stock-still when Chris begins to move.

He steps away from the phone, facing Toby but not looking directly at him, and runs a over his short hair, down his neck, leans into it. Closes his eyes. As the music continues to drone, his hand travels further down, where he caresses his own chest, over the swell of his pecs, then to his stomach, splaying his fingers and giving it a scratch that's more for show than to appease an itch. Like a fly in a tape trap, Toby can't seem to move. 

Chris slips his hand underneath his wifebeater, dragging the end up with his arm. His other hand joins it with the same slow, sensual motions. Catching his shirt with both of them, he swiftly divests himself of it, lifting his chin up as he watches it slide off of his wrist and onto the floor.

 _A strip tease, that's your surprise?_ Toby wants to say, but when he opens his mouth it just hangs there.

He's not sure how much of it is a strip tease and how much is just Chris feeling himself up(is there really a difference? Christ). It's a bit fast, a touch ungainly, but totally and completely erotic. He slows down and jerks in time with the music, not too over-the-top, not too underwhelming. Toby feels a tad _over_ whelmed with it all, to be honest. Again, this...isn’t at all what he expected. 

What _did_ he expect? Another jump? Though, is that more outlandish than what’s happening now?

Chris takes a few steps towards him and spins around, bending over to shuck off his pants and leave him in his--fucking briefs, oh Chris Almighty. _Christ,_ not Chris _. Mother of fuck._

When it comes to knowing exactly what the fuck his sexuality is, Toby’s at a loss, but he's no stranger to admitting that there are some handsome guys in the world, and Chris is one of them. His body is unbelievably hot, objectively, subjectively--whatever, who gives a shit. However, as good as he looks in clothes, he's amazing in none, and a fucking knockout in state sanctioned white boxer briefs.

Chris Keller has the nicest ass Toby's ever seen on a man or a woman. It's big, it's round, you can't not look at it when he struts around like top fucking dog, and it feels like heaven when you get it in your hands. As much as Toby often hates the man it’s attached to, he’s got a thing for it. He's certain everyone's got a thing for it at least a little bit; Chris would probably be getting catcalled if he wasn't such an off the wall fucking pitbull. The point is: it's the eight wonder of the world, and here it is, being presented to him in a nice white package(Speaking of which, Toby can also say the front side of him is equally as nice).

Chris rolls his back on the way back up, giving his ass an extra push, and if Toby wasn't sporting a boner before, he sure as hell is now.

"Chris," he starts carefully. 

Chris regards him over the shoulder, casually, as if he's not almost performing the lewdest act known to man. "Yeah?"

Well, how can Toby argue with that?

He's only got a second to wonder for the hundredth time what their lives could have been like together if they had met in a different time, in a different place, where neither of them did things that could land them in the joint, before Chris finally closes the gap and leans in. Toby braces for a kiss that never comes. Chris's breath just ghosts over his lips, his nose, his cheek, and then when Toby reopens his eyes, he just barely catches a glimpse of Chris's ass as he steps out of his briefs. Before he can follow with his head, Chris grabs his face with both hands and angles it forward.

"Ah ah ah," he chides. "No peeking."

Toby's eyes flutter. He reaches down to adjust the tent in his pants. Chris's hands follow a trail down his arms, and over his thighs, stubbled chin scraping over his hair, bare chest pressing against the muscle between his neck and shoulder. Toby can't help but let out a little moan when Chris puts pressure on the hand over his dick and gives his ear an innocent little lick. 

Toby leans into it despite himself. "Didn't know you were into R&B,” he mutters, barely holding back a groan. “I had you pegged as a strictly Godsmack kind of guy."

"Hey, I can appreciate the classics.” 

“I’m sure.”

Chris makes a small ‘mm’ sound, rubs his thumb in circles over the skin right above the waistband of Toby’s pants. The muscle there twitches, then jolts when Chris scrapes his nails gently over his skin. He takes an easygoing hold of Toby’s forearms, pulling them back, and back, until they’re locked in place behind the chair. Chris buries his nose in Toby’s neck, breathes heavily in his ear, drags his open mouth up and down over his jaw, his Adam’s apple, over the knob at the top of his spine--

Toby distantly feels something cool and smooth brush over his wrist. He’s too distracted by this hot little sound that sounds like it’s pushed out of Chris’s throat to process the fact that there’s something being clicked into place until Chris moves away and Toby tries to bring his arms back to his lap so he can touch his crotch. 

He tugs, and finds himself apprehended. He sobers quickly at the jangle of metal chains pulling taut. He sits up straight, now yanking furiously. “Chris,” he growls. “What the fuck?”

Chris just chuckles, dark like the space around them. “They say that if you snuff out one of the five senses, the rest get stronger. You think it’s true?”

“Chris, what the fuck,” Toby repeats, shaking the cuffs. They must have been under the chair. Fuck. “This isn’t--”

“Sexy?” Chris suggests, pushing his face into the other side of Toby’s face. His prominent nose teasingly makes an ‘s’ shape over his cheekbone and he plants a little kiss where it ends. 

“I’m not fucking into this!” 

“Once I’m finished, you will be.”

Over the heartbeat thrumming in his ears, Toby notices the song’s changed. Michael Jackson’s voice crones from the small speakers. ‘ _\--that you seduce every man, this time you won’t seduce me.’_

“Chris, we can do all this without the handcuffs,” he tries to reason in a level voice, even though he’s panicking inside at being restrained because he’s starting to think he can feel Vern’s breath on his face and the horrible overextension and snap of his bones in the arm bar at Chris’s hands.

That same man who put him in the hospital steps into view, naked as the day he was born, all his sensitive bits on display for the only two eyes in the chair. Toby’s eyes swallow it all up despite his own reluctance. Every glorious, peach-colored, skin-covered inch. “Fuck,” he breathes. His mouth goes dry, for various reasons.

“Restraints make you nervous, Toby?”

“Fuck you,” Toby counters with a rumble, steadying his breath. “You know why.”

“Can’t say I do,” Chris argues, stepping around to Toby’s other side, pulling one of his knees open. “I don’t mind being held down.” His hard cock is a testament to his arousal, bobbing inches from Toby’s nose. Chris runs his hand through Toby’s hair. Grabs a handful to keep him in place, then brings his foot up to land on the space between Toby’s spread legs. Toby looks up into his eyes. He has that pretty smile on his face that makes the corners of them crinkle. 

After taking a moment to decide, Toby--sick fuck that he is, that he’s _become_ (or maybe has always been?)--eventually leans forward, opens his mouth, and waits.

Chris sighs as his cock is met with delicious wet heat. Toby isn’t the best at blowjobs, but it’s a different ballgame when the cock you’re sucking is one you want to suck, and he’s been getting a lot of practice lately. 

Chris said it himself once, in a conversation about his favorite ex-wife, Bonnie: effort over showmanship. _“Plus,”_ he’d added, _“there’s nothing hotter than a sloppy hummer.”_

Chris’s dick is long and thick and fills Toby’s mouth enough to keep him occupied. Chris keeps it steady, doesn’t go far enough to choke him, and picks up a nice, easy rhythm. His breathing is the only thing that lets Toby knows he’s enjoying himself; he’s a rather quiet man during sex. He never really makes a lot of noise before he comes. At least, unless he’s getting fucked. Toby’s rocked some pretty scandalous noises out of the Big Bad Wolf that he’s fairly proud of being able to take to his grave. 

Chris sounds like he’s already pretty close. As if on cue, he grabs the base of his dick and pulls out, taking some spit from Toby with him. Some drops onto the front of Toby’s shirt. 

He strokes his cock, up and down, wringing it of the wetness. He coats his first two fingers with it, then grabs Toby’s chin, which squishes his lips together.

“Spit,” he commands.

Toby works up a good amount of saliva in his mouth while Chris moves his hand to his throat, laving his tongue over the edge of his jaw. Chris doesn’t tell him where or when, so when the spit dribbles out of his mouth, he feels somewhat clumsy. Chris doesn’t leave him hanging for long. His two fingers swipe it away. He then shoves his tongue into Toby’s mouth, kissing him hard.

He pulls away, head dropping back. Toby returns his attention to Chris’s cock because now he’s so fucking turned on if he doesn’t keep busy he’ll probably say something stupid(like anything in the vicinity of _I love you_ , because, fuck, they don't ever seem to do shit for the same reasons), but then he sees the shoulder of the hand that had been soaked in wetness flexing strenuously, arm concealed behind Chris's back.

Toby _does_ make a sound when he realizes what Chris is doing.

The song’s changed again. He focuses on the melody, the light electric guitar, the percussion of a love ballad. It’s almost sacrilegious, he thinks, to be a man--a prisoner, in prison--handcuffed to a foldout chair in the dark, sucking cock to The Gap Band. Sister Peter Marie would have a field day with this.

Something rattles out in the hallway. Startled, Toby recoils and tries to twist his neck around to see. His heart rate skyrockets, and adrenaline courses through his veins almost immediately.

“Chris,” he hisses, wriggling in his cuffs before realizing he’s making too much noise. “Chris, let me go, someone’s coming.”

“Not yet, they’re not,” Chris replies breathily, foot dropping off the chair as he goes for Toby’s pants.

“Chris, fucking stop!” 

There are voices out there, now. The phone’s music is still playing. It’s probably not loud enough to be heard over all the commotion since it’s sitting so far away on that crate, but Toby can’t stop his freakout even as Chris is unzipping him and trying his damndest to whip his dick out.

“Come the fuck on,” Toby snaps, sucking in a breath through his teeth when his flagging erection is stroked with sopping wet fingers. Fingers that had just been up Chris’s ass, _fuck--_ Toby wants to fucking focus on how they’re gonna be beaten to ugly bloody pulps by the hacks once they’re caught with their literal pants down but having a hand on your cock makes firing on all cylinders a little difficult.

Chris looks up at him, then behind him to the curtains, still closed. The voices are chirping away, totally oblivious to whatever the fuck’s going on in Beecher and Keller’s neck of the woods.

He keeps fucking jacking Toby off but it’s starting to chafe. He’s too fucking keyed up. This is too risky. Chris always fucking goes too far, Jesus, why can’t they ever be on the same fucking page? “Chris, enough--”

Chris suddenly lashes out, covering Toby’s mouth and tilting his head up. He forces Toby to stay still and shut up, other hand still on his cock. Together, they listen to the voices laugh in the hallway. They come closer, get louder, fuck fuck fuck, _until--_

“Shit, put it out. We gotta get back.” There’s the faint sound of a crackling cigarette, then the scraping of a boot.

“Ah, I guess. Let’s go.”

The voices in the hall shuffle around a bit more before finally fading out behind the slam of a door. Toby lets go of the breath he was holding, chest heaving like a scared fucking rabbit.

“See?” Chris drawls patronizingly, dropping to his knees. “Nothing to worry about.”

Toby glares down at him; that bastard’s cock is still hard despite everything. Freak. “This isn’t fucking funny.”

“I don’t think it’s funny.”

“You think it’s something,” Toby grumbles, realizing it's futile to keep trying to put up a fight. He shamelessly rakes his eyes over Chris again and can almost taste the metal tang of his blood as it rushes to his dick, almost like nothing happened. Almost.

Chris licks Toby’s shaft, sucking on the head. He pops off, briefly, grinning. “What if they’d come in?”

“You irritate me. Just suck my dick and shut up.”

“What if they had?” Chris insists, innocent tinkle in his voice, his face in Toby's crotch, his tongue dragging over over him like a rocket pop. “What if they’d walked in here, saw me naked on the floor, sucking your cock?”

Toby’s lip curls at the idea. He may live in a glass box and have to bare his ass and his measly little life to everyone in the common area every day for the next fifteen years, but even willing exhibitionism was never his thing. Chris is clearly into it, though, because he groans and flutters his eyes closed after he’s done talking, reaching down to grab at his own cock while he blows Toby--something he normally doesn’t do.

“That get you going, you psycho?” Toby tries, testing the waters, still hot if a little exasperated. “Bunch of guys watching you gag on my dick?”

Chris’s hand flies to edge of the chair, squeezing to keep from touching himself any more than he already has. His mouth works a little faster in excitement.

“Bet they’d want to fuck you, too.” Chris’s redoubled efforts make Toby squirm, but the power he feels looking down at this hulking man between his legs, drooling all over his cock, strokes his ego to a fucked up degree. “You’d be the only one without clothes. Makes sense, right? Taking it in the mouth and up the ass, like a good little bitch.”

Chris stops and swings himself into Toby’s lap in one fluid motion, moving into place so he can--holy fuck--

He sits right down on Toby’s cock. No graduality, no easing into it. He then grabs Toby’s throat. Tight. It’s difficult to breathe. Instinctively, a shock of panic zips up Toby’s spine, but then it drops back down and boils in his gut until it's just fire. There’s a world of difference between murder and manslaughter, and Chris is the one who’s mistaken in which of them committed what. There are two snakes in the pit.

He shifts around on Toby’s cock. Toby feels his insides clench around him. _Tight._ Hot. It’s almost uncomfortable. Like wearing a shoe half a size too small. “Say it again.”

Toby gags, eyes swimming in prickling tears of pleasure and stress and the pressure on his esophagus. “F--fuck you.”

Chris growls at him like an animal. He closes his grip, forcing Toby’s head back further. “Call me a bitch,” he pants. “Again.”

“Bitc--you, ah,” Toby gasps. All he can see is Chris’s face, blushing furiously because of the cock up his ass, and maybe from the foreplay and the dirty talk. His clear blue eyes are so dilated they’ve become dark, shimmering jewels, hunting in the dark. 

For all his rough edges and hard lines and unpredictable anger, Toby’s noticed that Chris Keller is remarkably gentle in bed when the mood calls for it. He’s spent many a night gently kissing Toby to sleep, or linking their fingers together when they take it slow. He’s mastered the art of casual intimacy and the eroticism of foreplay. He’s an accomplished lover--knows what buttons to push and when, and is an expert at pinpointing the threshold between pleasure and pain...a frightening superpower in the hands of a man who is at the mercy of his temper. 

Chris is at his scariest during sex, then, Toby’s decided, when all the cards are on the table, when both parties at their most vulnerable, when one wrong move can be the difference between great and horribly fucking wrong, even when he’s the one underneath--or, in this case, on top.

It’d be best to just go along with it just to make shit easier on himself, even though his self respect has increased tenfold since being locked up and humiliated and provoked and pushed. _Would that even stop him from killing me if he really wanted to? This isn’t about love for either of us, is it?_ Just a fucking neverending seesaw of who holds the most power at a time, Toby thinks. 

Maybe there’s affection in there, when the cells are quiet and Chris kisses him sweetly in the night and leans over him and they touch each other in places that only a lover would know. But isn’t that the same as it is now? Isn’t it all the same? In the background, Keith Sweat sings, ‘ _who can love you like me?’_

Finally, Toby catches a big enough breath. He uses it to snarl, “Bitch.”

The idea of getting his neck snapped during sex wouldn’t have been very arousing to the old Tobias Beecher--upstanding attorney-at-law, dutiful, mostly-heterosexual husband, loving father of two, token alcoholic--but this is Oz, and shit’s extra fucked up here, so when he thrusts up into that relaxing heat and hears Chris moan and feels the hand around his throat fall away to grab instead at his shoulder, he gets a crazy second wind.

If this is how he’s gonna go out, he’s gonna do it angry and spitting to the last fucking orgasm.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally supposed to be longer, and chris was supposed to slap himself in the face, but i got too burned out to get that far :( maybe in another fic! anywayz thanx 4 reading peace n love bye


End file.
